


From the top of my lungs

by Cirkne



Series: heart as loud as lions [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: 5+1 Things, M/M, Multi, mute Alexander
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-16 04:49:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7253080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cirkne/pseuds/Cirkne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It is ironic how he was ever only good at words and yet he cannot speak, how he wants his voice heard and yet he stays quiet.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Five times Alexander wants to speak and one time he doesn't need to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From the top of my lungs

**Author's Note:**

> *Looks at character that's all about words and speaking* ah yes but what if mute
> 
> title from The (Shipped) Gold Standard by fall out boy

i.

He's been here before. It seems his words have made it to his teeth and then he bites down and swallows everything he's ever wanted to say.

"Alexander," John says, to the right of him, his voice soft and like he means to say something else. "Ignore him."

Jefferson looks at John, only for a moment and then comes back to Alexander, smirking, pride in his eyes.

"Yeah," Jefferson says. "Ignore me."

Alexander tries to think of something - anything that isn't a curse word and comes up empty.

"Alexander," John repeats, quieter and with a lot more determination in it. Alexander lets himself be pulled away, squeezes his eyes shut and tries to ignore the headache creeping up on him.

"I wanted to punch him in the face," John growls when they are halfway to the parking lot and Alexander notices, only now, that his hands are clenched into fists and he looks as angry as Alexander feels. John's not one to back down from a fight but he's also not one to jump into Alexander's fights. He thinks, this must be killing him.

Alexander stops, watches John take two steps before he stops, too, turns to look at him. He wants to say: come here. But he can't. Instead he reaches for him and John closes the space between them immediately, rests his head against Alexander's shoulder. They breathe. Inhale, exhale, repeat. Inhale, exhale, repeat. Inhale, exhale, repeat.

"Sorry," John says eventually, like there is anything he needs to apologize for. They walk to the car.

ii.

Hercules puts his hand on Alexander's hipbone, presses his lips to his forehead. The clock shows 5:13 in the morning. It's an hour before Hercules goes to work, four before Alexander will likely crash on his side of the bed, always left for him, never occupied until the others wake up.

He feels guilty, often, that he and Hercules only interact in these short intervals of time. All Alexander can afford to give him are the in-betweens, the spaces that he crams into his schedule.

He takes a break every morning at 5:15, ten minutes after Hercules' alarm wakes him up. While he makes breakfast and drinks his coffee, Alexander sits at their kitchen table and watches him. He knows how loud Hercules tends to be, how much he smiles, how he talks and yet he never gets to see it anymore. In the mornings, Hercules doesn't turn on the lights and he doesn't talk much, doesn't joke, doesn't laugh. He says no one is supposed to be awake at this hour and so he doesn't want to wake them.

Alexander wonders if Hercules understands that he has trained him like a dog to find himself in the kitchen just so they can be near each other. Hercules used to tell him, months ago now, that he should go to bed and Alexander would nod but never listen.

Through the opened door to his office, Alexander can see the screen of his laptop dim. It is ironic how he was ever only good at words and yet he cannot speak, how he wants his voice heard and yet he stays quiet.

Hercules sets a plate of eggs in front of Alexander and Alexander cannot tell him he doesn't have the appetite.

"You'll need the energy," Hercules says, his words quieter than the wind outside. Alexander wants to say: _I love you too_. He eats his eggs.

iii.

By the time Lafayette pushes open the gates to the graveyard, it has started raining. John pulls a hood over his head, shoves his hands in his pockets. As he's walking, the plastic bag with candles bumps against his leg.

"We have the worst timing," Lafayette complains, their fingers holding onto John's arm, accent layed on thicker whenever they're annoyed. It makes Alexander wonder if he would have an accent when he spoke, if it would remind him of his mother or his father.

Hercules rests a hand on Alexander's back. Alexander doesn't think he realizes how often he does that, how often he chooses to lead him like Alexander needs direction. Lafayette turns at one of the graves and the three of them follow. There is no correct path in this cemetery.

Lafayette kneels down and motions for John to give them one of the candles. John doesn't kneel with them, Alexander thinks they look wrong when not pressed to each other. Alexander watches Lafayette cover the lighter flame with their hand and then light the candle. When he looks at the tombstone, the name is written in a language he doesn't recognize. Russian, maybe - polish? It doesn't matter.

They continue on, and so does the rain. Alexander looks back to see if their candle has gone out but he can see the flame, protected by it's metal lid. When he was little, he had let the fire burn too long before trying to secure the lid. For weeks afterwards his fingers had scars whiter than his skin was ever supposed to be.

Hercules moves his hand away to light a candle and Alexander doesn't stop to watch him like John and Lafayette do. The wind sounds harsher here.

The first time they did this, none of them were dating yet. They were taking John home, his lip split from where someone had thrown a punch at him. John had stopped them next to a cemetery that Alexander had never visited.

"Sad, sad lonely souls," he had said like a prayer and made them follow him in. The person selling candles had looked at his still bleeding lip for a second but then Lafayette was handing them money and so they didn't say anything. John lit the first candle and then they all found graves, empty of care and lit the other ones.

"Alexander," John calls after him. "It's your turn." He turns to reach for the candle and thinks of how this is the only time he gets to visit graves. I miss my mother, he wants to say. Lafayette hands him the lighter.

iv.

"Alex, please," Lafayette says, their voice tired and their hands covering their eyes. "No sign language, not right now."

When Alexander sits down, he is pressed to them, shoulder to knee, and Lafayette is shaking, just a little bit. He wants to say: I'm sorry. He wants to say: I love you. He wants to say: Tell me what I can do. Lafayette's eyes are pressed shut and they are breathing in sudden inhales like they're afraid they'll forget how.

Alexander tries not to think of how John or Hercules or both of them should be here, tries not to admit to himself that he cannot handle a sad Lafayette on his own.

They had taken sign language classes together, Lafayette behind him, kicking his chair like they were in high school. The day he realized he was in love with Lafayette he had written them a letter, folded it and pushed it in their jacket pocket. He had written: _je suis amoureux de toi_ just above where he signed his name. He wishes, badly, he could say those words instead of writing them down, wishes they would help.

"Alex," Lafayette says, and they're the only person to call him that. "You're not allowed to be upset about me being upset." Alexander turns to look at them and they are smiling, barely, their eyes red.

He takes their hand in his, laces their fingers together and watches Lafayette's chest move when they breathe out, watches them close their eyes again.

They start moving their lips, whispering under their breath: un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq; un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq; un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq; un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq. He wants to count with them, squeezes their hand instead.

un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, Alexander thinks to himself, too. Lafayette inhales.

v.

John insists Alexander needs to go outside at least once a week so he sits in the passenger seat of the car and looks through the window while John drives them home from the store. Whenever they drive through a hole, Alexander turns to look at the back, as if he can see whether or not their bags have spilled in the trunk of the car.

Two months ago, another car had run into Hercules and Alexander was the first one to get to the hospital. Until Lafayette showed up, thirteen minutes after Alexander did, Alexander had sat in a chair in the waiting room, unable to ask anyone where Hercules was and if he was going to be ok. He feels like that, sometimes: completely helpless. It is a poisonous feeling.

He turns to fiddle with the radio and remembers why he hates it. No matter how carefully he tries to do it, they end up listening to static louder than the music.

John ends up putting his hand over Alexander's, steadying it.

"You're restless," he says and Alexander leaves the radio alone, turns to look through the window. In two days, it will be the anniversary of his mother's death, the anniversary of the day he stopped talking. He hasn't told them yet, doesn't know if he will. Last year he had spent the day locked up in his one room apartment, lied to them about a deadline he had to meet. 

Hercules had been the one to suggest they move in together. Sitting on Lafayette's couch, one hand in John's hair, the other thrown over Alexander's shoulders, he had asked:

"Why aren't we living together?"

Last year Alexander would leave his desk to make coffee and wouldn't turn on the lights. He'd only make it to his bed half the time, with clothes from the previous day still on him. Sometimes he wouldn't eat simply because he didn't have the time to go to the store, sometimes - he didn't have the money.

He wonders how he found the space where needing to be taken care of and learning to be completely independent overlap.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. Hercules says: did you buy ice cream? 

Alexander texts back: John picked it up.

Hercules says, seconds later: tell John I love him.

Alexander blinks at the screen, locks his phone, turns to look at John, his hands on the wheel. Hercules loves you, he thinks. The radio is still playing static.

+

The clock reads 3:24 when Alexander, exhausted, crawls into bed. He hears rather than sees them shift and he imagines tree roots separating, inviting him in and them growing back together once he lays down, Alexander now trapped for eternity.

Eternity would be nice, he thinks and starts to drift into sleep. He hears Hercules, maybe John, say: 

"Glad you find your way to us eventually," he thinks: I always will, and doesn't need to say it. They know.


End file.
